


You Like Me Too Much

by RubyBelle



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU where everything ends up okay and no one stays dead, Age Difference, M/M, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Tony is a bad dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-21 14:23:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14917025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyBelle/pseuds/RubyBelle
Summary: Time spent together after saving the world is invaluable, but the feelings that surge up are new, incomprehensible, and only a little scary. Stephen doesn't know if Peter wants a mentor or more, but he definitely isn't comfortable with what he wants from Peter.





	You Like Me Too Much

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like me shipping this makes me the kid who sits alone in the sandbox and eats dirt, but i’ll convince you all — dirt is delicious
> 
> credit to BulletproofFurniture for being my beta cuz i suck :*
> 
> 通过以下链接阅读中文: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15554091

Before the dust has finished settling, Peter Parker shows up on the doorstep of the New York Sanctum, eyes alight, hands nervously tight around the stack of textbooks in his arms. Stephen considers ignoring him, watching him through the third story window, the teen pacing back and forth in front of the door, but eventually gives in. Peter _is_ an Avenger (however begrudgingly Tony Stark had declared it), and Stephen doesn't particularly want to start a quarrel with the egomaniacs upstate.

Peter, however, has not come as an Avenger, but instead a curious child. "Hi, Doctor Strange! I hope you didn't mind me coming, I was just — Mr. Stark told me about all the cool stuff you had and I was just wondering if I could, uh… check them out?"

"That ' _cool stuff_ ' is ancient artifacts from practitioners of the mystic arts  across the universe. This isn’t a museum, and it’s not open to the public.” Stephen is aware of how cold he sounds, but the possibility of the Sanctum turning into some public commodity, a pit stop for the uninitiated and ignorant disgusts him. Better to stamp it out now, before he has to explain things to the other Masters.

Visibly fallen, Peter somehow perseveres. “I’m not a nobody, Doctor, I’m—“ He leans in and speaks in a more hushed tone, quickly scanning the streets. “I’m an Avenger! We’re on the same team!”

“A single collaboration does not a team make,” Stephen says, but allows Peter inside. He doesn’t want a whiny child at his door, but he doesn’t mind the inquisitive honesty. He can always cut the meeting short whenever he so chooses, anyway.

Completely taken in by the architecture, Peter shuffles along in a daze, still clenching the thick books in his arms. Stephen allows himself a look, and sees that they are all historical; of the Holy Roman Empire, of the years following the Black Plague, of early colonial America. Perhaps Peter thinks the techniques Steven practices are Western in nature, stereotypically looking for stories of witches and wizards in folklore and history. Inaccurate as it may be, it’s still a bit endearing.

“S-...So,” Peter starts, mind still roving the area, overwhelmed by the seemingly endless bookshelves, stocked in languages few could read. “What kind of… _magic_ is it?”

“Magic isn’t exactly the best word to describe it,” Stephen says, remembering his own disbelief, his own inability to wrap words around meanings. “Anyway, I don’t have time to answer your book report questions.”

“Can I see upstairs?” Despite the request for permission, Peter's already ascending the staircase, ignoring Stephen’s words. _Too similar to Tony Stark_ , Stephen thinks sourly, and follows him.

“Don’t touch anything,” Stephen warns, sure that any complaints or explanations he gave would fall on deaf ears.

Peter hasn’t dropped his books or his backpack, so when he moves it’s obvious, his body shifting weight around as he bends to read placards or lean in close enough to a glass barrier that his breath leaves behind little white clouds. He’s respectful as he takes in all of the sights, quiet and careful, and Stephen finds himself a bit more relaxed. As annoying as it is to suddenly have to play chaperone, at least the boy follows rules, seeming to give genuine thought and consideration to each new relic he encounters.

"This is so cool," Peter finally says, slowly weaving through the glass cases, eyes darting from artifact to artifact. "Have you heard of Harry Potter?"

Stephen doesn't attempt to conceal his groan. "Yes, Parker, I've also been alive for the past decade."

Red blossoms on Peter’s cheeks, and he tries to backtrack. “No, I meant, like — like, this is all super cool, and I read all the books growing up, so, y’know, it’s like — I wasn’t trying to say — “

Stephen rolls his eyes. “It’s fine. Are you done yet?”

“How long has all of this been here?” Peter asks quietly, embarrassment dampening the excitement and volume.

“In this building? Forty years, give or take. On earth? A few centuries, average.” Stephen’s glad to answer a question only he knows the answer to.

“That’s _insane_ ,” Peter’s grip tightens around his books. “How much do you know about all of this?”

“Enough,” Stephen replies.

A pause as Peter thinks about his next words and then, “Can I come back? Like, next week?”

Stephen narrows his eyes and holds his ground, crossing his arms across his chest. “I don’t know why you would.”

Awkwardly, his arms still holding onto his books, Peter waves to the gallery of treasures before them. “All of this stuff is so cool! I just wanna learn more, and all the magic stuff, too. I promise I won’t be annoying, it’s just… educational! Yeah, it’s educational.”

Stephen knows Peter is trying to find an angle that would work, since it seems everything about him is broadcasted in neon lights. While the idea of shutting him down to maintain peace and quiet in the Sanctum is tempting, Stephen just shrugs.

“You can come back if you want, but this is _not_ a playground.”

“Yes!” Peter grins, jumping slightly. “Thanks, Doc!”

Of course, Stephen could’ve barred him easily; there are infinite ways of keeping Peter from returning or even asking to return, but they all seemed extraneous. A part of Stephen is a bit excited at the intrigue, at the chance of being able to show off, since all he manages to find himself around these days are beings of equivalent or higher power, plain people who don’t believe in him, or those who are better off not knowing about what the universe had yet to behold. He'll concede that it's mostly selfish reasons he’d allowed Peter to return whenever he’d like, excited for the superiority and self-esteem that comes with being the most talented person in the room. Old habits do die hard.

Keeping his promise, twice a week every week, Peter returns.

The days are not stagnant, nor pre-planned; multiple times, Stephen will only find out Peter had visited by a note left behind on the front door, or a message passed along by Wong, his eyebrow raised. _Too similar to Stark_ , Stephen once again thinks bitterly.

Tenacity is worthy of being rewarded, however — same as Stephen’s desperate pleas on the steps of Kamar-Taj, or his insistence on learning techniques that was repeatedly told to be out of his reach. When Peter arrives, Stephen allows him in, answering surface level questions about the relics and insignias scattered throughout the Sanctum. Peter holds a genuine interest, an inquisitive mind, and while he certainly has habits borrowed from Tony, he's mostly just a teenager who loves cool things.

Stephen approaches him consistently as a librarian or guide, keeping his arms crossed or folded behind his back, keeping distance between the two. There is no need to make friends, especially not with a boy who hasn’t even graduated high school. Smart as Peter is, he isn’t an equal, and Stephen doesn’t feel like allowing another unbalanced relationship into his life.

One visit, Peter arrives in the midst of a thunderstorm, agile and steady as he runs across the street. Even as Peter appears as he normally does, hunched over and hidden under layers, Stephen is startled at the reminder of Peter’s true abilities. It’s hard to keep in mind, especially since he reigns himself in when surrounded by priceless artifacts.

Stephen already has the door open for Peter when he gets close, and slams it shut behind him, all while watching from the top of the stairwell.

Peter carefully shakes himself off in the doorway, wiping his shoes dry, clearly nervous to track water into the Sanctum. “Sorry, Doctor,” he said, his voice a weak laugh. “It’s a mess out there.”

"We need the sun to come out," Stephen says, absent-minded. He flicks his finger, sliding Peter's umbrella into the nearby stand while looking over the entranceway. "So we can have something to laugh about."

Being met with a blank stare is not something Stephen expects. Peter awkwardly smiles and forces a laugh, and Stephen's shoulders drop. He quickly walks down the stairwell, gesturing at Peter. "You're kidding me. Good Day Sunshine, the Beatles?"

"I know the Beatles!" Peter says quickly, trying to protect his dignity. "Yellow Submarine and, uh… Hey Jude?"

"Very well, you can list the two of the most popular songs of the 60s, but you don't know Good Day Sunshine? C'mon, it isn't even _obscure_."

Peter doesn't finish shrugging when Stephen rolls his eyes and snaps, transporting them to the back library, next to the record player he'd insisted on getting. Still unused to the magic and thrown off his balance, Peter stumbles, fighting to stay upright, but Stephen ignores him in favour of pulling out a chunk of his record collection.

He'd sold everything before finding Kamar-Taj, but has since allowed himself trips to thrift shops and record stores, always following a budget. Wong had tried to argue with him against collecting goods and letting him be swayed by the materialism of the modern world, but Stephen argued that if he isn't allowed at least _music_ , then he's willingly submitting himself to torture.

Finding his prize, Stephen pushes the other records back into place and displays his goal to Peter, who has found his equilibrium and is wholly interested. " _Revolver_. August 1966, the Beatles' final recording project before their retirement as live performers. The album with your Yellow Submarine song."

Peter nods, obediently keeping quiet.

“This,” Stephen says, blowing dust off the record sleeve. “is Music 101. If you can’t remember _this_ , then there’s no hope for you.”

Only a little nervous, Peter nods again, accepting the responsibility.

* * *

 Early spring passes, and with it, the rain and snow, the murkiness of winter and uncertain weather. Life blooms across the city, as it always has and always will, and Peter still continues to visit.

Stephen can tell that Peter's gotten more comfortable, more relaxed and casual. From gripping his textbooks, nervous to set anything down onto any surface, to allowing himself inside the Sanctum without knocking, Peter's found a unique place of comfort. Stephen never minds the intrusion, and has begun to look forward to the days Peter would swing by after school, justifying his being there with a pretext of needing help with homework.

Perhaps Peter has never been allowed to become close to another (Stephen's loathe to use this word to describe himself, but the public sees no difference) ‘superhero’, so he always feels the need to have a 'reason' to visit. Once his excuses of wanting to see the artifacts or learn more about the mystic arts ran dry, he moved to needing help with his schoolwork, although Stephen knows that he can handle it alone just fine. He's never actually needed, but plays along by answering questions he knows Peter knows, since half the time the answer had already been written and is just sloppily erased.

Stephen also enjoys the constant, quiet downtime, finding a comfort there. Peter's a connection to the outside world — an intelligent one at that, one without an abrasive personality, pliant and agreeable. He's still young, of course, his naïveté and inexperience the one thing preventing them from becoming true equals, but as a frequent visitor, Stephen likes his presence.

Peter's age, however, definitely becomes an issue only when Stephen acknowledges something odd, something in the way Peter would tighten his fist before he reached out, or how he would smile alone when he thought Stephen couldn't see. He hasn't seen this coming, hasn't planned for it or ever desired it, but, for the first time in maybe half a decade, someone has a crush on Stephen Strange.

He isn't an idiot, isn't blind, nor is he deaf to emotions. It's obvious. Stephen hadn't wanted to accept it for weeks, shrugging it off as his own inflated ego that was too eager to find self-worth in others’ acceptance.

Peter is in high school, Peter is a boy, Peter is rife with possible mentors, Peter is almost a professional colleague. None of these are good excuses, and some are even good reasons as to _why_ Peter would like him in the first place. Having a kind person to speak to, someone who either tries to understand or just plain does, having a new home base with someone who helped saved the world with you are all reasons why Peter could get mixed up and misattribute any feelings of gratefulness to love.

Matters are made worse when Stephen realises the same can be said for him.

From the very beginning, the concept of having a crush, at _his_ age, is laughable. That crush being on a boy, and that boy being a teenager... It's all a bit too much for Stephen to unpack calmly. Any attempts during meditation cracks his focus instantly, sending him crashing down metaphorically and physically. He makes a rule for himself, to never let it grow into something more, into something he will most _certainly_ regret.

Stephen has a lot of practice separating the different parts of his life, keeping secrets from partners and employers alike, so when Peter shows up on his doorstep, feigning a need for tutoring, Stephen makes sure that tutoring is all they do.

But when he hands Peter a cup of tea, or leans in close to read the small print in his textbooks, the barrier between them crumbles just a bit. Stephen doesn't _want_ to become cold, despite it being the best way to keep Peter at arm's length. Of stable mind and body, being intentionally cruel to those he cares for hurts like a wound. (He still emails Christine a couple times a month, casual conversation hiding his desperation for personal assurance that he'd made up for his malice years ago.) However, he knows Peter revels in the scraps of affection Stephen allows himself to throw at him, knows it only encourages Peter.

Emboldened by the illusion of intimacy, Peter slowly begins to open up, no longer only asking questions, but recounting tales of helping the people of New York, of fun times with his classmates, of battles of all sizes won and lost. His grandest foe of all, however, seems to be Tony Stark.

“It’s just, y’know, he still doesn’t ever contact me,” Peter is saying, sitting in the corner of the stiff couch against the back wall of the library, half completed math homework in his lap. “Mr. Stark _used_ to call me when I did well, but now he doesn’t _ever_ call. _Happy_ doesn’t even call. It’s like, every time I start thinking I’m just texting a dead number, I get some sort of short message, so I _know_ he’s getting them, but he doesn’t ever _reply_.”

Stephen is standing across the room, flipping through a book in Sanskrit, not focusing on any particular words. Normally, he would shut Peter up, completely beyond caring about anything to do with Tony, but the dejection in his voice forces Stephen to hold his tongue. He’ll just let the boy air his grievances for now. He does this once every few weeks or so, never for a long time. A couple of false words of encouragement and Peter would be right as rain.

Velvet Underground plays softly in the background, Stephen’s classic music lessons ever constant. Peter sighs and shifts in his seat. “I know he’s letting me do a lot more now, but — I dunno.”

Stephen knows exactly all of Peter’s issues regarding Tony, and finds every single one of them boring. Before they’d met, Peter craved freedom, permission to do whatever he pleased and thought necessary. Now, with all the freedom in the world, he just wants guidance. Stephen only knows the bare minimum of Peter’s childhood (the childhood he’s barely out of now, Stephen reminds himself) and home life, but if Peter had tattooed 'NEEDS FATHER FIGURE' on his forehead, he still wouldn’t be more obvious about his desires. More than exhaustion with hearing complaints, Stephen's exhausted with hearing Peter’s stress _about_ Tony, about the man he so wants to call ‘Dad’.

Stephen shuts his book, looking over at Peter, who is undisturbed by the sound. Too lost in his thoughts, morose and self-pitying, Peter keeps his gaze on his hands in his lap, muttering, “I don’t know what I’m doin’ wrong.”

“I just do _not_ get what your thing is with Stark,” Stephen is fully aware of how annoyed he is, of how much of that was colouring his language, his body stance, his energy. Maybe later he would feel embarrassed by this, but in the moment, all he can do is wonder why anyone would inflict this level of stress on Peter, be it Tony or the boy himself. “Why bother concerning yourself with him? He certainly isn’t concerned with you.”

Peter snaps all of his attention to Stephen, his shoulders raising in defensiveness. “That’s not true!” The insult is plain as day, and Peter face hides nothing as he shifts to offense. “Why do you… _not like him_ this much?”

He’s afraid to use the word _hate_ , to suggest a powerful emotion, as if saying it would make it come true, Stephen thinks. He scoffs. “Are you really asking me? The man’s got an ego that rivals the size of the planet.”

Peter doesn’t immediately disagree, and Stephen shakes his head. “I used to be the same as him before all of this, and trust me, guys like him are the worst. I know from experience.”

Stephen would be lying if he said he wasn’t surprised at what he said. He stares at the book in his hands, studies the binding intensely, wondering what part of him slacked off enough to allow him to say something like that. He never _pretends_ to be kind, doesn’t even know how to, but it somehow feels like a mistake to let on that he was once every bit an insufferable asshole as he feels Tony to be. Having Peter hear him and possibly having him figure that out himself only managed to deepen those thoughts of regret.

“Woah, you were rich?”

Stephen’s emotions immediately transfer from a rising sense of doubt to complete frustration.

“I’m a doctor, of _course_ I was rich.” The glitz and the glamour of his past life can never truly fade from Stephen’s mind, and while he no longer feels the terrible need to display power and success via purchases, the concept of past him _not_ indulging himself with his riches seems patently absurd. “I was one of the best surgeons in the country—possibly the best in the _world_.”

There's no longer any hurt inside of Peter; now, simply surprise and fascination. “Wait, so the whole Doctor part of Doctor Strange isn’t fake?” Peter asks, famished with curiosity.

Stephen squints at Peter. “Why would I lie about that?”

“Well, I dunno,” Peter awkwardly shrugs his shoulders, eyebrows hiking up, his hands turned outwards. “I thought it was just a fake name, like Spider-Man, or Captain America. You have to admit, it sounds kinda funny.”

“Look, I spent years of my life working to get a doctorate, and—“ Stephen thinks that he doesn’t want to say more, so he doesn’t. ”Whatever.”

“What were you a doctor of?” Peter probes, excitement growing, his homework completely forgotten.

The questions Peter would normally ask are never this personal, as if he were following a personal code to keep secret identities secret. The sudden shift in his mood makes Stephen suspicious, although he doesn’t understand why. He doesn’t like Peter asking these questions, doesn’t like the chance of something private being revealed mistakenly. Keep him at arm's length, Stephen reminds himself, the words echoing as if they are a mantra. “Why do you want to know?”

Peter’s face falls, realisation dawning. He looks away, back to his lap, and stammers, “I dunno, I… I just thought, like…”

The withdrawal is annoying, the breach of boundaries is humiliating, and the uncertainty is detestable. Stephen whisks the book from his hands back into its place with a flick of his wrist, and bounds over to Peter, who notices, shrinking away from the intimidating energy. Stephen has had his fill — he cannot endure Peter’s moaning, cannot listen to Peter’s thoughts that are only filled with concern and preoccupation with Tony Stark, and does not want to answer questions that only serve to shift the focus off of Peter’s insecurity. Stephen’s life would not be used an excuse.

When he reaches the couch, he braces his arms on the back, leaning over Peter, suddenly aware of his heartbeat. “What is it that you want, Parker?” Stephen asks, disgust burning his throat. “Why do you come here? Are you looking for something to waste time? A playmate, a mentor?”

Peter shakes his head, but refrains from speaking further. The fear on his face doesn’t seem foreign, and Stephen pushes himself away from the couch, his hands shaking.

“What, don’t tell me — a father?”

Words he hadn't wanted to say, words that held more implications than he meant. A mistake. Stephen steps away from Peter, gripping his hands too tight, trying to find a level of physical pain to serve as a distraction.

" _No_!" Peter protests, behind Stephen's back. He doesn't know what he looks like and doesn't want to see. "No, I was just…!"

Bitterly sharp pains in Stephen's throat let him know that he can't stay in the room much longer, so he heads towards the exit, fingernails digging into his knuckles. He won't be made a fool of, won't let his emotions humiliate him again, anger and revulsion taking control of the carefully crafted exterior he'd spent so long to reclaim. He remembers sweeping papers off a desk, alone and cold, his broken hands unable to hold on for any longer, and does not want Peter to see that.

Peter's voice cracks when he says, "I was just… looking… for a friend?"

Stephen scoffs, fed up and weary. "I don't want friends," he says with finality, and leaves the room.

* * *

Peter doesn’t know why he feels as though he can’t leave. It seems irreversible, in a way, to open the door and walk out, without permission or an escort to the door, alone. When the music stops, the record having reached its end, the silence in the room takes on a distinctly physical sensation. A fear gnaws at the edges of his lungs, but Peter stays steadfast and remains on the couch, double and triple checking his work.

The colour spilling in from the windows blur into warmth, an orange tint taking on, and Peter is slowly looking at the books nearby, his hand still touching the back rest of the couch. None of the titles are familiar, and most aren't in any language he understands. He’s wondering if the books on the other side of the library are more his speed, wondering if it’s okay to let go of the couch, when the doors creak open.

Wong’s tired and irritated appearance feeds the fear in Peter’s chest. “Get your stuff, it’s time to go.”

“Wait, where’s Doctor Strange?” Peter asks, obediently shoving textbooks into his backpack. “He left earlier, but I thought he was gonna come back.”

A disinterested shrug is Peter’s only response. He zips up his bag and follows Wong out into the hallway, determined. “Why are you here? Aren’t you normally in, like, India or something?”

"I keep out of Stephen's business," Wong says, voice detached, completing a chore. It takes Peter a second to realise that Stephen is the Doctor's first name, and he wonders if he's heard it before. "But it's late now, and you have to go."

At the front door, Peter tries once more to remain inside, to stay in whoever's good grace he needs to be, awkwardly smiling as he asks, "Do you know if he's busy? I just wanna know if I can, y'know, come back next week — like always!" The addition isn't necessary, but Peter felt compelled to justify and explain his request.

Wong's face doesn't move an inch. "Don't know," he says, an act of charity, and closes the door.

Outside the Sanctum is undeniably louder than inside the back library, but without music playing, questions being asked and answered, and the sound of rustling paper, the streets of Greenwich Village are vastly empty and lonely. Peter can only get a couple of blocks away before he has to put in his headphones.

When he gets home, May isn't suspicious, not anymore. Whether she chose to believe Peter when he told her months ago that he was getting tutoring from _the_ Doctor Strange or whether she thought it was another excuse to spend every night patrolling the streets for petty crime, May had found some sort of peace. Peter does still do that — patrol and swing around, taking in the sights of his hometown from dozens of stories high, but never on the days he spends with Stephen. Those days are booked in advance, plans made to enjoy their time together without anything else.

Peter excuses himself from dinner, lying and saying he's already eaten, and goes to lie on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He knows he's sulking, but doesn't have anything inside him powerful enough to get him up and actually do anything about it.

"I don't know what I did wrong," Peter says to no one. Immediately, his mind reminds him of his meddling questions, his over-eagerness to get close to Stephen. The gnawing in his lungs comes back.

"I thought I was okay," Peter tries to justify to himself. "We've been hanging out for months, isn't it okay if I ask questions?"

But Stephen never asked questions, Peter thinks, he never pried, prodded, never cared to know even as much as Peter told him. No one did, no one cared — not Happy, not Tony, not even Wong, who he had _just_ met. That's fine, Peter grumbles internally, it's fine if they don't really care, especially since two of them were basically just business partners. Tony was just always like that, so it's also fine if he doesn't ask questions, and there's nothing he couldn't find out on his own, anyway. But _Stephen_ never asked questions.

The pointlessness of the whole situation hits him, so Peter rolls over onto his side and closes his eyes, trying not to grind his teeth.

He wakes up from his phone blaring too early, an ache in his hips from sleeping in his jeans. Set to get Peter up for school days, the 7 AM alarm is a bit excessive being that today was the start of a weekend. After a moment of fumbling, Peter turns the alarm off, and decides that when he wakes up again, he'll do some webslinging.

It's much closer to noon when Peter heads out, thin layers covering his suit, May watching him leave the apartment warily. Regardless of any potential danger, it always refreshes Peter to move around the city, and the mental capacity required to keep his momentum and speed without knocking himself unconscious against brick building corners keeps him from thinking too hard about any particular subject.

He hides his backpack with spare clothes in an alleyway six blocks from his apartment and activates the suit, instantly greeted by Karen, who can always somehow tell his emotional state.

"Good morning, Peter," the cordial voice says in his ears while Peter blinks to get readjusted to the interface filling his vision. "Is something wrong?"

"Nah, nah, nothing's wrong," Peter says, looking up at the rooftops and letting his muscle memory do the work in propelling him upwards. "Just gunna do a little bit of hangin' around today, y'know?"

"You're aware that I have biosensors installed, aren't you, Peter?" Karen says, as if with a smile. "They work as well as lie detectors."

Leaping from the tops of AC units and perching himself on the edge of a fire escape, Peter grimaces, "I don't really wanna talk about it, okay?"

"Understood."

Four hours later, after the only exciting event being him stopping a turnstile jumper followed by immediately preventing a nearby woman from being scammed, Peter relents and tells Karen everything.

"I just kinda want to see him right now," he sighs, sitting down to lean against an HVAC unit eight stories above Murray Hill, casting a glance in the direction of the Sanctum. "I never really head down to that neighborhood since it's way too easy to get spotted, but — I dunno, it just sucks."

"That's understandable," Karen says patiently, and Peter wonders what database she's tapping into for knowledge on how to respond to his whining. "You're upset that you can't see someone you enjoy spending time with."

"Yeah, but isn't that kinda weird? For me to wanna see him this much?" Peter kicks at the bits of gravel around him, antsy. "Like, he's some cool magic-user who's always doin' stuff around the entire world, and I'm..."

"You're the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man," Karen finishes, and Peter smiles despite himself.

"That's not the point," he sighs again, tilting his head back to look at the sky. "I shouldn't _want_ to see him. I'm only allowed there, like, twice a week, max, anyway.”

"Is that a rule you both agreed on?"

"No, it's — it's not," Peter waits for a pair of pigeons to fly across the entirety of his field of view, and looks down. "It's not a rule at all. There's never been _any_ rules."

"So, you _could_ go see him right now, if you wanted?"

Peter knows Karen only means well and only wants to know more, but having to say it aloud only serves to agitate him. "I guess! I dunno! I've only ever gone there twice a week 'cuz I thought more would be annoying, or something. He's never said anything about it, but he never says anything about anything. I'm always the one asking and coming and stuff. Nothing about us is, like — _official_ , y'know?"

There's a pause before Karen asks, "Official in what way?"

"Like… Like, we don’t talk about anything. We don’t share anything, like we aren’t _supposed_ to be talking. I didn't even know he was a real doctor, and we've been together for months."

As soon as the words leave Peter's mouth, he wishes he could cram them back in. "No! No — together isn't the right word. Sorry, that's — that's weird, it's wrong."

Karen doesn’t respond, and while Peter knows she doesn’t have the ability to be ashamed of him, he can still feel his body warm from his chest to his cheeks. He buries his head in his hands, hiding his face behind two layers.

“What _is_ the right word, then?” Karen asks, innocently curious, an AI who can do no harm.

Peter raises his head and says, “I don’t know.”

* * *

 

When Stephen hears the front door slamming, he automatically assumes it's Peter, arriving early, off-schedule. Neither panic from the expectation of inevitable confrontation nor alarm from the harsh entrance sets in, because time doesn't allow for it; almost immediately after, Stephen hears the unmistakable voice of Tony Stark calling through the hallway.

"Yo, wizard, where you at?"

Stephen is already annoyed that Tony is here, not even taking into account his lack of decorum, but he snaps his fingers and appears behind him, anyway. The startled jump Tony gives is satisfying, but not enough to overshadow the exasperation still weighing down Stephen's shoulders. “Last I checked, this was a Sanctum meant to protect the world against the Dark Dimension, but apparently it's now just some revolving door for needy superheros.”

Tony chuffs, pulling off his sunglasses and snapping them shut. “I don’t care. I wanted to talk about—“

“Parker?" Stephen cuts him off, rolling his eyes and stepping away. "Obviously.”

Throwing his hands up, Tony eyebrows knit together and he says, “If you know what I’m going to say, _O Great One_ , then why don’t you leave the kid alone? He doesn’t need you messin’ up his head.”

This makes Stephen stop. He doesn't turn to look at Tony when he speaks. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t act stupid," Tony says, continuing on as if Stephen is barely worth his time, like this whole visit is nothing more than a chore that no one else would do. "I don’t know what you guys do here, and I _really_ don’t _want_ to know.”

Stephen does not think about the chill that runs down his spine, and finally moves to make eye contact with Tony, a rising heat rapidly replacing the cold. “ _Please_ don’t insinuate anything you’d regret," He manages to say, carefully, tempered. "All I do is tutor him.”

Tony folds his arms, still holding onto his sunglasses, and scoffs, arrogant in his disbelief, aware that he was being lied to. “Yeah, _right_. You can’t tutor the kid, he’s pretty much a genius. I’d know.”

Of course he would take the moment to compliment himself, unable to allow credit to be given entirely to any associate of his, but Stephen isn't able to focus on that. When he speaks, he's aware he lacks conviction. “If he’s that smart, then he definitely doesn’t need your grip around him.”

Tony steps up, leaning his head back slightly to look down on Stephen, eyes wide and aggressive. ”Peter is my responsibility," He starts, encouraging a challenge against his claim. "I got him into this mess, so it’s my duty to make sure he can get out of it alive. At least until he’s 18," He waves his hand, dismissive, the future too far to consider. "Then, he can make whatever stupid decisions he wants.”

“How kind," Stephen says through his teeth.

“I don’t really give a shit. But," More comfortable now that Stephen hasn't swung a fist or lobbed an insult, Tony rolls his eyes. "Whatever you’re doing with Peter, keep it kosher, ok? He’s a kid, for Christ’s sake, he was barely alive for 9/11. He has no _clue_ how the world works. I don’t want you muckin’ up his head and getting him involved in something that’ll be messy for me to clean up.”

“Oh, that is _rich_ , coming from you, Mr. Stark," Mocking the reverent tone Peter unfailingly picked up whenever he spoke about Tony, Stephen balls his fists and tries to hold himself back from snarling. "Do you have any idea how much I have to hear from Parker about you and your shitty parenting?”

The offense and shock in Tony's face appears instantly, the venom unexpected in its purity. Anger sets in quickly, and he steps to Stephen, raising a hand in some unformed gesture, opening his mouth to protest. "Look, you — "

Stephen does not hesitate when he flicks his wrist, pushing Tony against a bookcase nonphysically. When Tony's shoulder slams against the bookcase, an astral whip forces him against it, sending books tumbling down along with the sunglasses in Tony’s hand. The binding is harmless — Stephen is careful to make sure of that — but entirely unexpected, and Tony's mouth drops open in an astounded outrage.

"You've done more to mess up his head than anyone else, Stark," Stephen continues speaking in his silence. "I don't know what you thought you were getting into when you first picked Parker up, but I know you damn sure weren’t prepared for it. I spend more time listening to his complaints about you than anything else you might _mistakenly_ be imagining."

Stephen can feel the tremor in his hands again, the acid in his throat, the raw panic of a terrible decision swelling up. Tony's furious, fingers noticeably twitching, ready for a fight — but still, he keeps his silence.

"Whatever mentor-father role you wanted or didn’t want to play, you got stuck with, and your negligence did worse than anything I could do to him here," Stephen says, the shaking in his hands forcing his attention down for a moment before he can continue. "I could _never_ hurt him.”

The bindings holding Tony back dissipate, sending him lunging forward momentarily. Stephen tries to control his breath as Tony adjusts himself, snapping down to clutch his fallen sunglasses, fingers still twitching, so achingly prepared to call a suit, start a fight, get revenge.

As expected, Tony takes a step towards Stephen (slower this time, finally aware of the implications, remembering how few the bonds that tie them are), a fist raised to chest height, his face torn between residual shock and pure indignation. "You are _so damn lucky_ that I don't want a fight today, Strange, or I would've blown you straight out into the street," he says, his voice barely tempered, low and earnest.

Stephen makes eye contact and says, "Get out of here."

Tony doesn't obey at first, his fist a threat between the two of them. Very slowly, he pushes the side of it against Stephen's shoulder, as if he couldn't make his message any clearer. Tony then heads for the door, pausing with his hand tight around the handle, turning his head to look at Stephen, but not bringing his eyeline anywhere near the man. "Like I said, he's a _kid_. Half your age, in case you couldn't count."

Stephen holds his hands against his chest, the shaking so violent that if he were able to focus, he could hear the rattling of gears inside his broken watch.

Tony knows.

And if Tony knows, then it's impossible to ignore any further.

Pressing a hand to his face, trying to will stillness and serenity through force, Stephen steps through the main hall, slowly navigating his way back to somewhere safe. A flash of deep red catches his attention, and Stephen only sighs when he sees the Cloak of Levitation duck around the corner.

"Oh, what, you saw it all?" Stephen groans, fully aware that absolutely nothing would come of whatever he intended to do. "What are you even doing wandering around?"

The cloak flutters to his side, pressing a corner to Stephen's shoulder, the spot Tony had targeted, and Stephen rolls his eyes. "If I were actually in danger, do you really think you would've been able to stop him by yourself?"

Of course there isn't a verbal response, but the cloak twirls and rests itself on Stephen's shoulders entirely, settling in its normal place. The gesture is comforting in its routine, so Stephen leaves it on while he continues walking, back to his room, tucked away and isolated.

"I know what I'm like," Stephen says, unsure of to whom he speaks. "I know what I do. Peter's too young to — " He squeezes his eyes shut, remembering sweeping papers off a desk, an ending before there could've been a beginning. "...To have to deal with that."

The cloak slips off Stephen's shoulders, dragging his attention to the doorway. Stephen's standing at the foot of his bed, hands more relaxed now, the trembling down to a normal, workable level, his agitation allayed some. He shakes his head and rubs his temple, starting to feel utterly ridiculous. "I don't know what you mean," he says to the cloak, aware that he never _actually_ knows what it means. "Just go back to your case, or something."

Surprisingly, the cloak obeys, flittering off down the hall, leaving Stephen alone.

* * *

He doesn't really have time to change, with it being the middle of the day and in a busier part of the city, but Peter throws on his spare clothes over his suit in the alleyway behind the public library before ducking inside. Trying to clear his mind entirely hadn't worked a bit, and his conversation with Karen had only proven that he doesn’t know nearly enough about the situation, so he does the best next step — studying.

Peter is aware his fixation on finding an explanation for his and Stephen's relationship (although just calling it _that_ seems wrong) would clear up in a second with a discussion from Ned or MJ, that just having someone tell him he was fixated would help, but he logs into the public computer regardless. He doesn't want this on his phone's search history, as if there were a way someone could find out. Hell, despite his newfound independence, Peter still isn't entirely sure if Happy gets updates about his internet browsing habits. Better not risk it, he decides.

A fresh Google page is a blank slate, oddly terrifying. Peter types in ' _stephen strange doctor_ ', then immediately deletes it. He can learn everything about him if he wants, learn about his alma mater, when exactly when he stopped being a doctor, whether it was an accident or not, but he doesn't want that. He doesn't want his experience of learning more about Stephen to be filtered through a web search, so cold and unfeeling. There’s so much he wants to know, but so little he does.

Peter tries something more vague; the concept of them, rather than the specifics of who they are.

Searches for ' _relationship advice_ ' and ‘ _how to tell if you like someone_ ' turn up juvenile sites for tween girls or depressing forums for adults on the verge of divorce. Peter tries a test on Seventeen's website, but bails halfway through when it asks how often they snapchat, admitting the futility of standard litmus tests for him and Stephen. They're far from attending the same school or meeting at parties, and Peter isn't even sure if Stephen has a cell phone. Besides, practically everything seemed to be for girls who had crushes on guys.

Peter looks over his shoulder before typing ' _gay relationships_ ', taking an embarrassingly long time to decide whether or not to use the word _gay_.

After refining his search countless times, over two hours spent, and dozens of studies read on same sex relationships, Peter stops and leans back in his chair, letting out a low groan as he stretches his back. The information has done nothing but confuse him more, possibilities swirling around in his head, a burdening pressure to think about his own sexuality starting to block everything out.

Straight but attracted to one person of the same sex — straight but flexible — it's possible to be bisexual and have a preference for one gender, right? — Peter didn't even think he had a large enough sample size to make any assertions — Peter wasn't even sure if he was _sexually_ attracted to Stephen, which just led him down an even more confusing path of shame and turmoil.

Sighing with his entire body, Peter leans back into the computer screen, scrolling through the Google Scholar page for something relevant. He'd moved onto things about age differences, sadly entertaining the possibility that he really _was_ just looking for a mentor or father. He hadn't acted like this with Tony — but, then again, Tony had never let Peter visit him every week.

There are _plenty_ of articles about young gay men entering relationships with older men, discussing the cross-generational issues, and the mere controversy of it, but something about them doesn't really resonate perfectly. Not the sexuality focus, Peter can ignore that specific, and not the implication that the older man had somehow tricked the younger man. It all felt too harsh a condemnation for Stephen, who didn't fit into any of the boxes laid out by the authors. Peter didn't fit into any of the boxes, either, relating less and less as he read further.

Peter leans back in his chair again, eyes downcast, staring at his hands lying curled in his lap.

They aren't average. Neither are Tony, or Steve, or Bruce, or — well, anyone like them. Being more than human, knowing about the sheer vastness of the universe, experiencing infinite darkness, seeing earth-shattering power, having gone through all of what they've gone through…

Peter remembers Liz. He knows he still really likes her, how she stands out as a special presence in his mind, but is aware of how that feeling is a fraction of what it once was. She'd moved away and time healed the wound, closed the gap that had only fissured in his chest because of his abilities, and the responsibilities tied to those abilities. There was no way she would've understood his worries because she hadn't known from where they stemmed. Only few know and understand those roots of his concerns, but none of those people seem to have the emotional capacity to care about him.

But the Doctor _does_ care, Peter thinks without effort. He's been by Peter's side for a while now, hasn't he? Albeit at a distance, but he's listened to Peter complain and helped him, even if it's in just the smallest of ways. And Mr. Stark's the same, Peter asserts mentally, he cares too, Peter's sure of it.

In a small moment of warmth, Peter notices he'd thought of Stephen first.

He clears the browser history on the computer and logs off, done with his research. It hadn't done much, but Peter isn't exactly thinking about the helpfulness or lack thereof when he makes his way back home.

Peter's sure he spends the next week acting as usual, since Ned doesn't seem to pick up on anything, but waiting for the next day he's allowed to go back to the Sanctum feels like a lead weight in his gut. He's a bit more sure in how he'll answer any questions Stephen throws at him this time, if Stephen is still angry, but that _if_ holds the impact of a truck hitting Peter head-on. When he makes it to the front door of the Sanctum, Peter walks off before his fist gets anywhere near knocking.

At the end of the street, Peter shakes his head, wondering what he's doing, why he's leaving before saying anything, especially after all the stressing he did in the past week. He confidently heads back to the entrance just to turn on his heel and walk away, just as confident.

"C'mon," Peter says to himself, balling up his fists and turning to stare at the large wooden doors, indomitable. "C'mon, Peter, you got this."

He does not have it.

Three more attempts to knock, three more attempts to leave, and then Peter finally manages to force himself to just push the door open, as he would've before last week — casual, nonchalant, not already feeling beads of sweat run down his back. The agony endured is met with an anticlimactic empty main hall.

"Hello?" Peter calls out, carefully closing the door behind him, eyes wide, all of his senses focused. It isn't like he thinks something would go wrong in the sense that all of his body would begin tingling, warning him of impending doom, but he's certainly gotten to the point where just Stephen being nearby gave him a particular feeling, unlike the ones he gets from Ned, May, or even Tony.

Once he reaches the top of the main stairwell, still slow and tentative, that particular feeling instantly surges, and he turns to see Stephen, arms crossed, reserved. Peter doesn't know if he'd teleported there or had just been suppressing his presence — if that was even possible — but tries his best to give a normal smile.

"Afternoon," Stephen says, and Peter feels as though he hasn't heard his voice in months.

Peter grabs the strap of his backpack and adjusts it nervously, trying not to let his smile falter. “Hey, I… hope it was okay for me to come by? Today?”

The restraint in Stephen’s face falters just a bit, his eyes darting away, downcast, searching for something far away. When he opens his mouth to speak, he is suddenly jolted forward, pushed by an unseen force, and stumbles.

Peter jumps back instinctively, his hands shooting out in case he needed to catch Stephen or fight whoever had pushed him, but the gesture is unnecessary. Stephen whips his head to the side and snaps, “Alright, I get it!” to the hidden figure.

Utterly confused, Peter leans over to see who was behind Stephen, but only sees a what: Stephen’s cloak, the one that he met so long ago and learned more about later, the one that gave him levitation powers. As Stephen rights himself and huffs, Peter scrunches up his face, suddenly remembering all the instances of the cape moving on its own, as if with a sentient personality, things he’d written off as a misattribution of something of Stephen’s own doing.

A sigh brings Peter’s attention back to the present, and Stephen’s frustrated face grounds him. “Look, Parker, I don’t really do this often. The way I behaved before was…” He sets his jaw and looks away again. Something hot in the pit of Peter’s stomach appears as he watches Stephen struggle to find words, watches him display more honest and pure emotion than Peter has possibly ever seen.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he finally gets out, and Peter is comfortable with the feeling that none of this frustration is targeted towards him. “I was out of line. I’m sorry.”

Peter shakes his head, smiling but confused. He’d been so certain that he would’ve been the one to have to apologise, and the relief washes through him, feeding the warmth. “That’s fine, Doctor, really! I — ”

Peter cuts himself off, watching Stephen rub his thumb against the knuckles of his other hand, a habit Peter realises is a habit. The word hangs in the air, and he wants to say more, but the thought of saying too much, saying something wrong, messing up and losing the warmth inside him right now is plainly terrifying.

Stephen sighs, a miniscule gesture, and focuses on Peter, his gaze soft, and Peter feels welcome again. He's missed that, the kindness in Stephen's approach.

The thought makes him pause.

Stephen has looked at him like this before.

Peter can't remember when the last time was — can't remember when it became commonplace.

Biting his tongue and breathing in, gathering up everything he has to offer, Peter steps forward and kisses Stephen, pushing himself up onto his toes to reach. Their noses bump together, and Peter falls back onto his heels immediately, the peck over as soon as it started, his heart pumping in his dry throat, a buzzing filling his brain so loud that he almost couldn't hear Stephen's red-faced reaction.

"What are you doing?" he demands, a hushed shout, his hands gripping onto Peter's shoulders. As he continues to speak, he pushes them forward, away from the stairwell, out of direct view of the front door. "Out in the open — what if someone had seen — !"

Peter's still absolutely filled with the rush of a first kiss, of the first kiss with Stephen, of the complete comprehension of what he feels and what he wants, when the cloak whips around the two of them, draping itself on Peter's shoulders. Stephen huffs as Peter watches the red cloth pat himself on the back, as if congratulatory.

"Oh, don't you dare," Stephen says, letting go of Peter and reaching out to grab the cloak. He's too slow, and the cloak whirls around, twisting between the two of them, the sudden movement throwing Peter slightly off balance. "Don't _praise_ him!"

Peter can't stop the laugh that comes out of him, his entire body tingling, almost overloaded with sensations. Stephen continues to focus on the cloak, which — who? — seems to not give a single shit about Stephen's ire. "You're not even supposed to be out here, and _you know_ I wanted you to leave us alone, damn it," he says, unable to catch himself before he finishes his sentence.

Stephen quickly turns to look back at Peter, more flustered than he'd thought possible, and says in a hushed voice, "You didn't hear that."

"You've been talking to it, too?" Peter asks, eyes wide.

Stephen blinks in confusion. "Too?"

"Well — " Peter starts, looking away, embarrassment growing as time passes, the memory of the kiss starting to block things out entirely. "Not _the cloak_ specifically, but, like — I was talking to Karen about — Karen's, like, the voice in my suit, but she's nice and she was helping me with, y'know — " He gestures between the two of them, trying to smile again.

Stephen only groans and pinches the space between his eyebrows, his shoulders dropping. "If you laugh again, I'm going to send you back home."

Peter _does_ laugh, but Stephen doesn't follow through on his threat. He grumbles a bit more before turning around, shoving his hands into his pockets, unguarded, and heads down the hall that leads to the back library. "Come on, already," he calls out unnecessarily, Peter already speeding up to follow him, directly on his heels.

 _There isn't a name for this_ , Peter thinks, shushing the sudden wonder of if this meant they were dating or not. There isn't a name, and that's fine, because he doesn't need to worry about it for now. He has his time back, his spot in the corner of the stiff couch against the back wall of the library is still available, his connection to Stephen remarkably unbroken. The kiss itself wasn't shamed, just the timing, and whatever Peter had wronged was forgiven. His body still felt alight, aware of every sound and scent and motion, from their footsteps falling in line to the pink tinge to Stephen's ears.

Peter laughs again, summoning a shush from Stephen, but it's alright. Everything is alright.


End file.
